All language subtitles for waiting_for_god_s03e01_the_funeral

Oh, no.

No.

Why do I get new hats for funerals?

Not as if the poor sod they're throwing
it for is going to give a damn what I'm

wearing.

Oh, God, what a sight.

Mutton dressed as lizard.

And the one who should be in the coffin.

And here comes little Jane, the friendly
neighbour from next door.

I'm not here at all. I am stuck in some
horrendous 1950s situation comedy.

Come in, Jeannie.

Hello, Diana.

Hello, Jeannie. Would you like a cup of
tea? My mother -in -law is coming to

stay and my silly hubby has invited his
boss to dinner. And I think I'm about to

have a baby. Oh, dear.

Don't worry about a thing, Diana.

We'll look after you. I am not going
mad, Jane. I am merely indulging in a

little comic irony for my own amusement.

So you're not having a baby?

Oh, no.

Tom!

Joke, Jane!

Humour! Do you know what that is?

Or has living near Harvey made the
concept of the joke seem a trifle

I have a perfectly good sense of humour.

I just feel that today is not the right
kind of day for jokes.

Why not?

We are going to a funeral.

Jane, we are always going to funerals
round here. That's the object of this

place, isn't it?

Darling, we've all come here to die.
That's not true, darling. We haven't

here on youth training schemes.

We've all come here to fill in time
before we conk out, before we finally

out of gas.

This is the hard shoulder of life.

And we are just waiting for the bloody
tow truck to drag us off to the dump.

Diana. We are all here grimly hanging on
by our teeth to the last great cliff

top. Oh.

So, it is inevitable that every now and
again one of us detaches ourselves from

our dentures and plummets to the rocks
beneath.

Diana. I mean to say that we shouldn't
have the odd giggle along the way. God

knows they're rare enough in this museum
of the living dead.

What now?

Talking of which.

Everybody ready for the off?

Got your season tickets to the
crematorium?

Oh, don't you start, Tom.

Start what? I've never started anything,
Jane.

I'm one of life's great followers.

The disciple's disciple, that's me.

Jane thinks we should be miserable
because we are going to a funeral.

Oh, I don't know. At least it's a day
out. And you know what they say.

Better to stand looking into a grave
than lying in a grave looking out.

That's not very nice, Tom.

Well, anyway, we hardly knew old Barney.
His name was Jimmy. Well, whoever.

Just going to swell the numbers. Have a
good laugh at the Reverend Vulture.

The vicar's name is Sparrow. And I'm
going because I'll miss Jimmy. And I'm

that he's leaving us.

He'd only been here two days.

Right. One of Harvey's smarter moves.

Just managed to cash the deposit before
the old chap snuffed it.

Harvey would have given Jimmy's family a
refund.

But he was tied by the terms of the
residency contract.

I'll... you out the front.

And this time, please don't tell the
undertaker's assistant that the deceased

had contagious leprosy.

Precisely, Dyer.

De mortuus nil bonum.

Don't speak ill of the dead.

You showed Jimmy round, didn't you, Tom?

Yes. You find goodness in everyone.

I try.

What did you say about Jimmy?

I can't remember.

You said he was more boring than your
son Jeffrey.

Did I?

You said he was a man who had lived for
nearly 90 years, done nothing, had no

friends, and you could damn if you could
work out his exact position in the

great scheme of things. You said you had
met more interesting artichokes.

Yes, well, he was alive then.

Well, what is he now? He's dead.
Jonathan Miller. I was trying to give

benefit of a reasonable place in the
collective memory of mankind.

By lying.

Yes, it is the way, Diana, among
civilised folk. Not that you'd know what

are. A bit of embroidered eulogising
makes up the cushion we sit on to keep

off the hard bench of grief.

Dorsham Buncombe!

Oh, Jimmy Watsit was an insurance
assessor who was about as exciting as a

vegetarian barbecue.

Now, is this hat OK?

Oh, is that a hat?

I thought a bat had died on your head.

Oh, I'm so glad they're hurt.

Oh, I'm slain, I'm slain. Shut up, Tom.

Let's get it in, let's get it in.

What was that you were saying? Harvey.

Yes, we'll talk later.

What?

What's this bus?

Where are the cars?

Of course, Diana, Freddie had minimal
insurance.

His name was Jimmy, Harvey.

What is, Hanai?

Well, I'm sure Jimmy would be grateful
that the Bayview Corporation is paying

for this bar.

Oh, good.

I'll flash the thief.

Oh, would you get a move on, please?
Come on, come on.

I've got a charming young family
dropping off their grandfather in five

And we don't want coffins lying all
round the place, do we?

Thank God they're allowed to speak ill
of the living.

You're a rotten little shyster, Harvey!

See those graves?

Can't even make up the names on half of
them. The only reason for existing was

passing on the genetic baton.

At least we weren't stabbed to death by
a pin -wielding virago.

Ah, good morning, Dennis.

Another one bites the dust. Ah, familiar
faces.

Are you with the bride or groom?

I've lost a sense of humour, I think.

Are you the godparents?

What?

Harvest Festival?

Funeral, Dennis.

Yes.

Yes, of course.

Mr. Baines and Jane, come to read the
bands, have you?

Oh!

Well, no crap like that, Dennis, and
I'll count my lot off down to the

Catholics. I bet they'd give me a better
deal.

James Addison, Jimmy to all his friends,
was loved and revered by all

who knew him. But you didn't.

He travelled far and wide, making many
friends, in his dual

role of surfing champion and record
producer.

Record producer.

And those of you who worked alongside
him in the rock music industry

parties and his many wild women.

He wasn't known as Screaming Jim Addison
for nothing.

Screaming Jim. I think I'm going to
enjoy this.

But of course the good Lord giveth and
he taketh away.

And so it was with Screaming Jim.

At the height of his fame and fortune
while hang gliding in the Alps.

Screaming Jim was taken from us at the
tender age of 28.

Excuse me.

Jimmy was 88 and in insurance.

Oh.

Not arrested on drug charges.

Oh.

Oh, dear.

I'm sorry.

Look, it's not my fault. It's somebody
else's.

Do something, Harvey.

While he's above ground, he's still
yours.

Is there a vicar in the house?

What a farce! Well, we got him buried
eventually.

Not sure that it's legal, DIY funerals.

Fun, though. It's not every day the
vicar bungs on a nervous breakdown for

entertainment.

Beats the hell out of bringing by.

Hello, anybody in?

Oh, heavens.

Geoffrey. No, we're both out.

Hello, Diana.

Geoffrey. Not brought, Marion?

Ratcatcher got her, did he?

She's outside looking at a tree.

It's her I want to talk about, actually.

Oh, look at that. Time for my aerobics
class.

Must fly.

See you later.

Aerobics... Diana!

She's being tactful. I doubt it.

What's wrong with Marion this time?

She won't talk to me.

Blessed relief.

I think she's having some sort of
crisis.

She just mopes around all day, gazing
blankly at nothing.

When did this start?

Well, I said that whatever her problems,
I'd never leave her. I'd always stand

by her.

I see.

You said you'd always be there, and she
got terribly depressed.

Yes.

I can't understand it.

Marion needs help.

What did the psychiatrist say?

He's given up.

He says she's just an unpleasant person
with no redeeming features whatsoever.

Well, that's not very professional. She
ran over his cat.

Well...

What do you want me to do, Geoffrey? I
don't know, Dad. I just don't know. I

thought I'd tell you, see if you had any
bright ideas.

Sit down, Geoffrey.

As you know, I've not always seen eye to
eye with Marion.

Well, that's all right, Dad, not with
anyone else.

In fact, I go as far as saying that
humankind need hardly have bothered to

itself out of the primordial soup.

It's the best we could come up with as a
Marion.

Yes, Dad.

It's not only that she has the morality
of an alley cat, that she has the mind

of a retarded cauliflower, that she
drops... It's all right, Dad, I think

made your point.

The thing is, she is my wife. And do you
love her?

Yes.

Really?

Yes, Dad, she is my wife, and I do love
her, and I'm asking you if you can help

me, please.

Of course, Geoffrey.

I'll do anything I can.

You're a real brick, Dad.

I am your father.

You are my son.

Goodbye, father.

Goodbye, son.

I am your father.

You are my son.

God, where's my puking bowl?

Hello, dear.

I've been having a word with Dan.

Shall we go now, dear?

I'll tell you what.

Why don't we go past the old DIY centre?

Gavin's got the new pine shelving in
from Norway.

It sounds really exciting.

Really?

What do you say?

You could have a bit of a browse through
the shower curtain catalogue.

when I first realised that I was
extraordinarily attractive to women.

Because I had more hair then.

And I was taller.

Six foot three.

Played number eight in the England
scrum.

I expect you could tell that from
looking at me.

A battle's faster than a speeding
bullet.

That woman hasn't even unpacked yet.

I can't think why Geoffrey wants me to
do something about Marion.

You should dismember her, feed her to
the dog. Oh, Diana.

Or burn the electric fire in her bath.

Mind you, Marion would probably enjoy
that.

This is a serious matter, Diana.

She's obviously a soul in torment.

And so she should be, frightful
creature.

When she's not sloshing down the gin and
the pills, she's cuckolding poor old

Geoffrey with everything in trousers.

Maybe she has a crisis of conscience.

Maybe within her there is a good person
struggling to get out.

And maybe Harvey Baines will be the next
Pope.

Talk of the devil.

Oh, look, here comes Daffy Dennis, the
deranged deacon of Dingley Dell.

What's he doing here? That's it, Dennis,
come on. Now, you sit down there, you

make yourself comfortable. It's rabbit
on Wednesday.

It's Thursday.

It's your rabbit.

I'll talk to you later.

Thank you, Harvey, most kind.

Not in the dining room, Basil.

Thank you.

My name is Harvey, Diana, not Oyu.

Then why do you answer to Oyu?

I've got you there.

What do you want?

What is the raving Rev doing here?

He's taking a short vacation.

Oh, for God's... Would you spit it out,
you cretin?

He's taking a short vacation.

I'm not surprised.

I thought he could have Jimmy's room
until the fumigators are finished.

Has he been given the sack because he
cocked up a funeral?

That's a bit rough.

There's also a rather embarrassing
baptism.

Apparently there was a child of this
parish called Ugly Little Barter Jones.

What a kind of guy.

Now, the bishop thought he probably
needed a break, so they do make him

Basil's already beaten us to it.

Hello, Basil Macpherson.

Dennis Barrow.

You look a bit young to be a new inmate.

I'm only stopping for a couple of days.

Ah, then you want to know who the high
-speed little ravers are, then.

Sorry? The goers, the pushovers, the hot
-shot Zimmer girls.

It wasn't exactly uppermost in my mind.
Trick is to pretend you're senile.

God, 20 years ago, I'd have been put in
jail for the things I get up to around

here.

I'll bear it in mind.

See that one over there?

Good time Gladys used to be a coffin
girl.

Get her leg over her house, she could.

Basil, just telling the new chappy a few
of the local facts of life.

We heard.

Dennis is a vicar, Basil.

Oh, oh, I do beg your pardon.

Fancy me telling a vicar where to get
his jollies.

Coles to Newcastle.

of him, Dennis.

Contrary to popular opinion, not all old
people are fun -loving and sex -mad.

Some of us have the decency to be
vicious old cripples with a healthily

view of life. I know exactly what you
mean.

But you're a vicar.

No man of a cloth could possibly agree
with anything Diana says.

Oh, I don't know.

Oh, dear.

You will come to tea at half -past
three.

Sorry? Yes, you probably will be, but be
there just the same.

Come on, Tom.

Right -o.

I've got some chocolate fingers sent to
me by Bertrand Russell's sister, Jane.

It's beautiful, Gavin.

It sort of adds a whole new dimension to
the concept of pine shelving.

Would it be an honour to have this in
one's kitchen?

Every time you put a mug on it.

You can hear the echo of the Norwegian
lumberjack calling his loved one. It's a

frozen tune.

Hello, Marianne.

Marianne, please.

This is shelving and plasterboard.

She has a couple of problems.

And, of course, the grain is quite
wonderful.

Lovely, evenly spaced rings and... I
don't know what

I'm going to do about it.

And so, Jane Russell always sends me
chocolate fingers.

Thank you, Tom. And Joan Crawford always
sends me acid drops.

But she would, wouldn't she?

Tom, don't talk. No, really, don't mind
me.

It's fascinating.

For sake, will you stop being so
tolerant?

Just because you're a vicar doesn't mean
to say you have to tolerate every

crackpot that pops out of the woodwork.

He might just be being nice.

Nonsense. He's just trying to live up to
a preconceived image of what a country

vicar should be. All wifty -wafty and
fake and doubly wise and thinking

are nice people.

Am I right, Dennis?

Well, I... May I? She agrees with me.

Maybe he'd like to talk for himself.

Away you go, Dennis.

Now, listen, Dennis.

It's not every day that we go to a
funeral and we see the vicar dropping

marbles all down the pulpit steps.

It's a pity it's not every day. It'd be
great fun, but there you are.

What we want to know is, what's up, Reb?

Mind you, I think you were spot on with
ugly little bastard Jones.

I think we're on the Damascus Road here.

Yeah.

In a perverted sort of way, it is the
Damascus Road.

But instead of, like St Paul, looking up
and seeing the blinding light of faith,

I have looked up and seen the outer
darkness.

The empty chasms of the soul.

The snake rising in the bowels of hell.

Is he talking about Dasko?

Dennis, would you just care to run that
past us again without the fire and

brimstone?

I have lost my faith.

I mean, tut -tut.

Lost your faith, eh?

Mm -hmm.

You were right.

Most of us just go through a set of
programmed, pious motions. I do my best.

perform all the ceremonies. I scuttle
round the parish, picking up the bits

missed out by the welfare state.

But it means nothing.

More people go to the pub quiz night
than go to church.

Questions are easier.

I'm not what I set out to be. I'm not a
vital, central part of the community.

I'm just an unclaimed simple worker
trying to prop up yesterday's

I'm something out of an eeling comedy.

People talk slowly to me and Americans
take photographs of me with their arms.

Chalky finger.

Thank you.

Well, you have come to the right place
to get a balanced view of faith.

Really? Oh, yes.

Tom has buckets of it. I have absolutely
none at all.

But how do you survive without faith?

Very well, thank you. She survives by
venom, revenge and general loathing of

everybody. But don't you find your life
to be an empty void, a non -statement?

Yes.

This doesn't worry you? No, not at all.
I've always thought of life as something

that just happens and then stops
happening.

Anything else is just delusions of
grandeur.

And you, Tom?

Oh, it's quite simple.

I have faith and I have a much better
time than she does.

You! Haven't lost your faith, Mary, you
know. You're just on a bit of a downer,

that's all.

Nonsense, he's going crackers.

It would have been much better if I'd
never had any faith, and then I wouldn't

know what I was missing.

Oh, my God, tormented souls first on the
right.

Listen, Dennis, there are thousands of
people out there desperate for help, and

they couldn't give a toss whether you
got faith or foot wrong.

So just...

piddling about, get out there and do
something.

Or they'll lock you up in the funny farm
and then you'll be a total waste of

space. What you need is a cause, Dennis.

What he needs is a kick up the bum.

Ah, I've got just the cause for you,
really.

Yes, he wants you to tunnel out of cold
bits with him.

I want you to save my daughter -in -law.
Oh, my God.

She's lost her way as a wife and a
mother. She's lost her way as a lush and

tart.

She needs someone to take her by the
hand. Or by the throat.

Quiet, Diana.

And lead her back to the true path. Will
you do it for me? It may not be a great

step, but it might be the first step.
Oh, I don't know, Tom.

I mean, where would I find her?

Probably on her back in the off
-license.

wackos convention this'll be.

Geoffrey, this is Dennis, who I was
telling you about.

Hello.

Could I have a word, Doctor?

Yes.

She won't do it, though.

What? So she doesn't need some barking
vicar telling her how to run her life.

Oh, dear.

Well, she might have a point, though.
Check this fellow out.

He's been suspended by the bishop. He
christened some baby ugly little bastard

Jones.

But he needs a lost soul to bring back
to us. He will try so hard. I'm sorry,

Dad. She quite refuses to be counselled.

She threw a gun at me. She can't even
get that right.

Oh, well, I did try. You did, Dad, but I
don't think that one manic depressive

is necessarily the right person to
counsel another.

Oh, I'm not so sure.

Good grief, she's talking to him.

She hasn't talked to me for months.

What is?

The Reverend Dennis is trying to find
his face by saving a distressed soul.

I am a distressed soul, Jane. Oh,
Harvey.

Jane, you're touching me. Sorry, Harvey.

How is your soul distressed?

Well, look at that for a tailor's bill.

Maybe you don't need so many suits,
Harvey.

Jane, look at me.

Carefully.

What do you see?

A fine man.

A man who is so sensitive that he has to
hide his vulnerability behind a veneer

of worldly, almost crass behaviour, lest
he be crushed like the delicate flower

he really is.

Jane, you see a man in his prime.

Oh, I do.

A man approaching 40, 35.

But a man with something missing.

Oh, that's not true, Harvey.

Listen to Diana.

You haven't got anything missing.

If you had, you'd have a much higher
voice.

I meant, Jane, I am missing a partner.

Oh, Harvey.

No, there comes a time in a real man's
life when he has to stop playing the

field. No matter how much the crowd may
roar for him to play one more season,

there comes a time in a real man's life
when he has to start looking around for

his first wife.

Oh, I think I'm going to faint.

to tell me something, Harvey?

I certainly am, Jane.

I want you. You can have me.

I want you to help me. How can I help
you? I want you to help me to find a

decent wife.

I want to join that new tennis club.
There must be stacks of rich, idle women

hanging around there who want a real
man's man like me.

You write me a few references, will you,
Jane?

He knows how a tailored bill can hurt.

You're kidding.

No. Harvey has decided he wants to get
married.

But I thought he already was married to
a Catholic concert pianist with TB in a

clinic in Switzerland.

I'm not entirely silly, Diana.

I know you got him to say that just to
cheer me up.

Well, what about that woman who posed
naked on tractors? She was real?

I think that's what's brought this on.

She threw him over for an underwater
welder and went to live with him on an

rig near Spitsbergen -Dorferhofer
-Bladwegelstein.

Where?

Spitsbergen. Oh, the North Sea.

I've been there.

I went after the creature that took off
my leg, Moby Dick, the big white whale.

Hello? Oh, our very own...

Oh, now, don't worry, Jane. We'll sort
Harvey out for you, even if we have to

deliver him dead to your doorstep. Oh,
thank you, Diana.

Geoffrey, how's it going? What news of
the anti -depression crusade? Oh, it's

going really well.

Good. Yes, Marion sounded most cheerful
when I last spoke to her.

When you last spoke to her? Yes, when I
last spoke to her at her spiritual

retreat. Where's that? In Wales, where
she is staying with a reverend Dennis

Bloody Sparrow.

Golly, T.

Willikerson. But... Oh, come along,
Geoffrey.

The man's a vicar. He's only ministering
to her inner turmoil.

That's why when she rang me, she was
laughing and screaming and gasping, and

could hear a drunken vicar singing rude
psalms in the background.

My wife has run off with a vicar, and
it's all your fault.

And yours.

This is terrible.

Most alarming.

A man of the cloth. Quite outrageous.